It happens on a Monday.
Not the kind of Monday that announces itself.
Not the kind that comes with bad news or sudden revelation.
Just a gray London Monday with wet pavement and overbrewed coffee.
I wake up before the alarm.
Marcus is still asleep, one arm crooked awkwardly under his head, breathing slow and even.
For a moment, I just watch him.
No panic.
No flicker of what if.
No scanning for fracture.
Just presence.
I slip out of bed quietly and head downstairs.
The house is dim and soft.
Eleanor’s monitor hums gently on the counter.
The kettle clicks on.
I stand at the kitchen window and stare at nothing.
And I realize something simple and profound:
I don’t feel like I’m waiting.
Not for crisis.
Not for collapse.
Not for the next turning point.
I’m just… here.
It f
